


queen's gambit

by Wagandea



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Bottom Erik Lehnsherr, Canon Disabled Character, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Genderbending, Manipulative Charles, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Top Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagandea/pseuds/Wagandea
Summary: For Charlotte, Erika will kneel.





	queen's gambit

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to OllieTamale, who was an inspiration & helped me brainstorm, and who was subjected to me complaining for several months as I was (very slowly) working on this!

Charlotte has never been a delicate thing, so long as Erika has known her. Soft hands, manicured nails, wool cardigans and sweater chains and, of course, the embroidered blanket draped over her legs. The world, their adversaries repeat on television or radio or via the newspapers, will eat Ms. Xavier alive. (They leave out her title, well through the 70’s. Erika insists, viciously and pointedly, on calling her _Dr. Xavier_ , or at the very least _the Professor_ , to the point where everyone forgets they were once on a first name basis.)

A revolutionary, a woman to be feared, takes Erika’s form, or so they imply. Tall and imposing, hair cropped, bare faced, all muscle and venom. Even their own kind can’t imagine what _trouble_ Magneto must face when it comes to a polite old headmistress. The Brotherhood attributed it to a personal weakness. Charlotte’s students, Erika hopes, know better.

And _oh_ , she is beautiful. Women like them are not supposed to be pretty, but Charlotte always looks her best like this: Jaw set, eyes cold and hard, the lines around her mouth too prominent. “What is it you want, Erika?”

She does not kneel, though she wants to--to fall to her knees at the wheel of Charlotte’s chair, helmet in her hands, head bowed and eyes cast down at Charlotte’s feet in surrender. (She still wears heels. She’d worn them the entire time they knew each other, in ‘62, and the authoritative click of Charlotte’s stride had enchanted Erika as much as it irritated her.)

“I have come to stay. Would you turn me away, old friend?” She is not kneeling, but it is still a surrender, some twenty years too late. Charlotte’s gaze is harsh and evaluating.

“You’ll help rebuild.”

“Yes,” Erika answers wearily, though it was never a question. (An order. Charlotte orders her.) She is tired, and she longs for a home that is no more. This describes all the places she once called home. The only space left Erika has a claim to is that at Charlotte’s side, for now.

Something in Charlotte’s expression shifts. She is still beautiful, when her features soften. The urge to kneel does not lessen. “Alright, then. Welcome home, my dear.” (This hurts far more than it should, least because Erika has a lingering feeling that Charlotte has been reading her mind.)

 

\--

 

Charlotte wears red lipstick when she has something to prove, which is dreadfully often around Erika. There are no more beds in the guesthouse and Erika will have to sleep in Charlotte’s. This is not the point Charlotte is trying to make. That they should bunk together is nothing unusual, after all those cramped motel rooms in ‘62, though of course the curious students know nothing of ‘62. (Funny that Charlotte hasn’t told them all the full story, gathered her students together for a cautionary tale. It would doubtless answer their unspoken questions.)

No, the point Charlotte makes is a red lipstick mark pressed to Erika’s palm. It lingers there. Charlotte’s fingers stroke over the back of her hand. “I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” she says, and she’s smiling in that way, amused and secretive, that makes Erika feel as if she’s not in on the joke.

Erika frowns, and eyes the bed no less critically. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?” She’d say no such thing of course, but _Erika_ is the unrepentant lesbian, she means, and Charlotte is--she’s a bit of a maneater, yes, but that’s it: She’s ever only been after _men_ as long as Erika has known her.

Charlotte might fool her right now, though, if Erika didn’t _know better_ . She hums in thought, presses another kiss to Erika’s skin, this time the inside of her wrist, and then she looks up all sly and secretive and with _far_ too much intent.

Erika feels marked, laid claim to, and she’s certain when she scrubs at the lipstick marks later a faint pink imprint will be left on the skin. How many _men_ have been on the receiving end of that look? It’s a bitter thought, one she vindictively hopes Charlotte will pick up on.

Because Charlotte must know as well as she does after twenty years of doing this song and dance, Erika might do anything if only Charlotte would give her _that_ , and on occasion even when she won’t.

(Sometimes, Erika thinks, even if she could only _pretend_ to be in love, just for a few moments--)

It isn’t Erika’s to take, but she _wants._

“Charlotte--”

“I’m only teasing,” Charlotte says, and the look is gone. “Let’s get to bed,” Charlotte says, and they do.

The lipstick marks leave pink streaks on the white sheets that never do come out in the wash.

 

\--

 

The thing about Erika staying is, she isn’t really _staying_. Charlotte gives her a choice, and if she wants Erika to stay, this is her mistake. Erika will play nice for as long as she is needed, yes, but the moment she isn’t--well, there’s no place for her at Charlotte’s side _then_ , is there?

Perhaps it’s the principle of the thing. That she is almost singlehandedly, responsible for the hardships of Charlotte’s life over the past twenty or so years means that shame and regret weigh heavy on her shoulders when she’s in Charlotte’s presence, but that’s only one facet of the whole thing.

The shame is not localized. Erika protests viciously over the chess table when Charlotte asks if she’ll be staying _indefinitely_ , some cutting remark about how she won’t be kept, she won’t be tamed--

But sometimes, _sometimes_ , she thinks privately when Charlotte is out of range, Erika wants that choice to be made for her. Charlotte could do it, as easily as Erika can open a locked door with her power. Erika wouldn’t even _know_.

She tells Charlotte she won’t be tamed, and the shame is that she _wants_ to be. She has no words for this desire, this psychic exhaustion.

Erika has let no person have power over her since killing Shaw, but as ever, the urge to kneel at the wheels of Charlotte’s chair is present. The concept is terrifying and enthralling. Any act of submission is dangerous. She keeps those thoughts in a vice, close to her heart.

 

\--

 

Charlotte is wearing red lipstick. There is more than one way to force Erika’s hand. Ultimately, she doesn’t use her powers at all. Erika wishes she had, or maybe she’s just wishing she was less _complicit_ in this.

She’s won the game. Charlotte places Erika’s king very gently alongside the board, and rolls back from the table in their small guesthouse room to indicate she doesn’t want to play another. This isn’t unusual. If left up to Erika, they’d be playing rematch after rematch through the early morning, but it’s late and they both need to get some rest, need to be up bright and early to continue with repairs on the mansion.

But Charlotte stops by the bed, lingers there, giving Erika a long curious look that _usually_ means Erika will be feeling the nudge of Charlotte’s mind against hers in another moment ( _nosing around where she shouldn’t be_ ) but it doesn’t come.

Erika’s teeth are clenched. She’s been on edge for days. She wants to snap _what, what do you want Charlotte?_ but then, Charlotte says:

“You know, I… I thought you knew, but… Erika, you’ve always been very dear for me. I rather think that if it’s possible, I might have fallen for you.”

\--And the rest of the world narrows to a thoughtful hum of the metal of Charlotte's chair, her cross necklace, her earrings, the silver fasteners on her skirt. Erika stares, inexplicably feeling _caught_ , doing something she shouldn’t have. They’ve never talked about this.

(Later, Erika will realize: This was planned out, every quietly convincing word of the confession carefully picked. Charlotte has always known exactly which of her buttons to press. She knew, of course she did, that Erika would move _worlds_ if only Charlotte loved her back. Whether it’s genuine or not, Erika doesn’t know, nor does she _care_. She should.)

“You’re serious?” Her voice sounds hoarse to her own ears, broken.

There’s a twitch of a smile at the corners of Charlotte’s red mouth, but her eyes are very serious. She exhales on a sigh and, after a long moment, says “come here.”

It’s… it’s not a command, exactly, but it’s authoritative. Erika feels caught, but more than that, she feels _owned_.

If she doesn’t have words for craving submission, she certainly doesn’t have words for acting on it. Erika rises to her feet and, as if in a trance, as if Charlotte _had_ ordered her to, she crosses the room.

“Come here,” Charlotte repeats, and there’s an edge to it this time. Erika has had no choice since she came back to Charlotte. She understands this now.

Very slowly, she sinks to her knees at Charlotte’s feet.

“Please,” she says hoarsely, unsure of what she’s asking for, and then, fully formed and desperate in her head: _I love you_.

“I know, darling,” Charlotte says, and there is no hint of mercy in her voice. “I know.” Her fingers are cool and her nails are sharp as she cups Erika’s chin in one hand. Erika closes her eyes and surrenders.

 

\--

 

Erika’s sexual fantasies have always been somewhat indistinct in nature, shapeless and formless. Her experiences have been similarly unsatisfying, always _fine_ but never _good_ . She doesn’t particularly _like_ men, but she’s had more of them in her bed than women, so she still feels--slightly ill prepared when Charlotte invites her to bed properly.

It’s a small consolation that Charlotte likely hasn’t done this at _all_ , up until the moment it starts.

She’s thought of Charlotte often, and though she’s never thought of Charlotte as _shy_ , perhaps Erika had hoped she would be. Charlotte in her thoughts has a soft touch, even if her actions aren’t any more distinct than the curve of her hand over Erika’s breast, the trailing of fingers over her hip.

The real thing, Erika finds, is equal parts confusing and intimidating. Erika is no shrinking violet (though her previous female partners have been, had always expected tall brusque Erika to take charge in this area too), but still she squirms under the full force of Charlotte Xavier’s attention.

“Be still for me, love,” Charlotte murmurs from behind her, laying on her side and pressed to Erika’s back, and it isn’t a _request_ . Her hands wander, curious, and she continues to give orders here and there, patient but firm, _roll onto your back_ and _take these off_ with her fingers nudging under the waistband of Erika’s sensible underwear.

Erika has never taken orders well. She also has never been so aroused in her _life_.

“I’ve never been with a woman before,” Charlotte clarifies unabashedly, as Erika is pulling her underwear down her legs.

She pauses, fumbling over the words she wants to say in her head. “I can show you--”

“Touch yourself for me,” Charlotte continues as if Erika had never spoken, and Erika abruptly swallows her words.

(This, at least, she’s no stranger to. Erika has always been very _particular_ , and she’s turned away the touch of many a lover because it’s simply easier and requires less patience to get herself off.)

“If that’s what you want, Charlotte.” And she must _sound_ unimpressed, because Charlotte laughs and taps two fingers to her temple without explanation. In the end, Erika obeys, counts her breaths mechanically as she traces two fingers over her clit, Charlotte pressed warmly into her side.

Charlotte is at times unpredictable, but Erika supposes she should have seen this part coming--the  alien feeling of Charlotte’s thoughts creeping over hers, until Charlotte is _there_ , in and around and above her, as if Charlotte were holding Erika’s mind in the palms of her cool hands. It’s consuming, terrifying, awe inspiring, godlike in execution, and Erika falls falls falls.

(Later, in the early hours of the morning, Charlotte will ask her again if she plans on staying. There is little comfort to be found in her arms, but there is absolution.

“Yes,” Erika says, and if there’s a bitter undercurrent to it, Charlotte pretends not to notice; she has, after all, gotten what she wanted.)


End file.
